Gallery

"You sound surprised," Jesse said.

"Not really," Sheila replied. "Look, we all suspected there was something going on, but it all seemed innocuous, so we just ignored it. Not ignored, really. More like -- you know that art gallery on Fifth Street?"

"Not really. I mean I know it's there -- "

"Yeah, anybody who lives west of here knows that place, because it's right on the way to work. And it's got that odd orange sign, so you notice it every time you drive by. But it's too far from work to walk there, and there's no good places for lunch nearby, so you think anyone here's been there? Probably not."

Jesse sneezed, excused himself. "I agree, but you mind helping me understand why this isn't a non sequitor?"

"Sorry. See, I've been meaning to say this since last week, after I decided on a whim to stop in at that art gallery on the way back from work."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it was Wednesday, I noticed the lights were on in the gallery, and since I didn't have any idea what I was going to do myself when I got home I decided to stop in. Turns out Wednesday's their late night. It was pretty neat -- contemporary, mostly paintings and sculptures, some abstract work but most of it you could look at and say, hey, that's a landscape, or an athlete. I've seen better galleries, whole lot worse -- wasn't really anything special about it, but I felt a whole lot better hanging out there for a half hour than I would have if I had gone home and wasted that time online. And while I was there, I was thinking, why hadn't I come here before? And the only answer I could give was, because I knew what to expect, and I didn't think it was worth the effort to find out if I was correct. So I went, and yeah, it was what I expected -- no surprises -- but it felt good to confirm something about my world. And this is where I come to the part about the Johnson contract. No, what we just found out wasn't surprising. But by confirming what we suspected, I feel more alert, aware. And now that we know that it's really not that big of a deal, we can  move on -- I can keep passing that gallery every day, without any nagging curiosity. And yes, we'll have to revisit this Johnson thing every once in a while now that we know about it, just like I'm sure to go back to that gallery every few months, to see the new exhibits. Surprised? My only surprise is how good I feel now that I know."

Love Songs

"No, I'm not a fan of love songs. They're so public -- any couple that thinks they're playing our song doesn't realize a thousand other couples think that song belongs to them. I love you so much, I don't want to cheapen it by borrowing words from some singer. I want to express my love for you in my own words, even though I struggle to find the words that match how I feel. I'm sorry I dissed your song -- that was wrong of me, selfish. But I didn't do it to make fun of you, to dismiss how you feel. That song can't express how much I love you -- that's what I was reacting to. But, how about I say that I'll be more respectful about your musical tastes from now on. Because your feelings, and your love, are more important to me than my opinions."

Language

Dorothy Parker claimed that she hated writing, but loved having written. For Stephen, though, the opposite held true. He enjoyed the act, the struggle, of writing, would at times work so furiously on a story or magazine article that he'd skip meals and appointments (sometimes knowingly, other times not). The most disappointing part of writing for him was reaching the end, whether it was a deadline or the realization that he could do no more to improve his work. For he would often feel that the words he composed had not fully realized his intention. "It's like buying a sweater that fits and looks nice," he once explained at a party, "but isn't exactly what you want to wear, so you never take it out of the closet. That's why I rarely read what I get published." He would use cooking analogies as well to explain his dissatisfaction. "The meals I make look and smell great, but the taste -- yes I'll eat the whole thing, and probably cook it again, but it just leaves me full, not satisfied, feeling like I need a tasty snack, something to read that has a little more zest. Don't know what I need -- add some spicy figurative language, let my exposition bake longer -- I just feel like language is my enemy, that I'm never able to express my thoughts, my feelings, completely."

The Wordy Shipmates

Just finished Sarah Vowell's The Wordy Shipmates, an analysis of the founding and early years (1630 to 1660) of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. I was hoping this book would provide a fresh perspective on the history I had learned (and quickly forgotten) during my middle school years in New England, and I was not disappointed. Vowell is an entertaining writer who is able to balance a clear respect for her subjects with a snarky, postmodern voice that never comes across as too satisfied with itself; she writes that much of her childhood knowledge of American colonial history came from watching "The Brady Bunch" and other television situation comedies, without feeling the need to amplify the inherent humor of her tale by winking or groaning at her reader. Her book is certainly not a comprehensive history; only a few dozen of the thousands of colonists are mentioned, and of those only a handful are discussed in depth. But the people Vowell does focus her attention on – compassionate yet authoritarian John Winthrop, loyal outsider Roger Williams, devout and defiant Anne Hutchinson – become fascinating and relevant figures. I'm tempted to say that Vowell portrays the Puritans neither as pious heroes nor narrow-minded barbarians, but in fact she portrays them as equally both, praising their devotion to learning and ideas on community and damning their medieval treatment of contrarian thinkers and Native Americans. The Wordy Shipmates won't replace middle school textbooks in New England (sorry kids), but it's a must-read for anyone interested in becoming re-acquainted with what they've forgotten about this crucial period in American history.

Crazy

Stan shook his head, hummed a disagreeing laugh as he drank his coffee. Setting the paper cup down, he cleared his throat, then "Jensen's not crazy. You know what crazy is?"

"Doing the same thing, but expecting the same result?" offered Warren.

"Nah. Close. That's the definition of insanity. Crazy's a little bit different, that's where you keep doing things that you are counter-productive, self-destructive even."

"Sounds pretty broad."

"Well yeah, everybody screws up, acts on impulse. That's being human. But most people, see, learn from their mistakes -- they're self-correcting. Crazy people, those are the ones who can't see that what they're doing isn't helping, that if they don't get their act together, correct the" -- Stan straightened himself in his chair, changing to a mock-professorial tone -- " 'error of their ways' " -- he lowered his arms back down to table, dropped the tone -- "they're heading for disaster."

"I would call Jensen's behavior self-destructive."

"Well, yeah, but look at it this way -- does he make the same mistake twice? And you gotta admit, he's doing pretty well for himself. Yeah, the guy's impulsive, dangerous even -- but he's self-correcting. That's why he's not crazy."

Fish

He realized he had been an all too-willing accomplice in his own imprisonment, accepting at face value the banalities of pop culture. And even as he realized how limited his knowledge was, knowing that there was so much he didn't know, he knew he was so thoroughly acclimated to his comfortable confinement that he could not break free. He felt like a fish looking past the water's surface to the clear blue sky, knowing that there was an entirely different world, an entirely different way of thinking and being, than what he was used to. But he could no more escape from his environment and enter that foreign world than a fish could breath out of water.

Love

"Yes, you were better to her than he ever was. But you didn't really love her, in fact you had no idea how to be in love with her. All you know about love is what you've learned from pop music lyrics. To you, love is a concept -- what she wants is somone to love her for real."

Shave

Michael smiled, grasping both sides of the wide podium and leaning forward until his arms formed upright right angles. "Have to begin with an apology," he began. "After showering in my hotel room this morning, I realized I had forgotten to pack my electric razor." He had actually realized this oversight shortly after leaving his house, but thought a little artistic license was appropriate. He stroked his chin to draw attention to his stubble. "I thought about going to the convenience store across the street to pick up a blade and shaving cream," (he had actually never really considered it, aside from considering it as part of his story) "but it's been twenty years since I last shaved with a blade, and back then, the results weren't pretty." (True on both points.) "Now in saying this, I fully realize that if I hadn't said anything, most of you probably wouldn't have noticed. However, you seem like a fairly perceptive audience, so there was a good chance that somebody would notice and start to wonder if I had a rough night last night. So, I had to make a decision -- did I want to take a chance that some of you would think I was a dirtbag, or lay it on the line like this and convince you all that I'm an airhead?" The line drew the casual, polite laughter he had been seeking.

Reading

He would be considered by anyone outside of professional academia a well-read person, and while he did enjoy reading he found the activity frustrating at times. He found it difficult to consistently remember what he had just read, many times reaching the end of a paragraph and realizing that while he had certainly scanned the letters that had come before, he could not recall the content. He would then scan back to the top of the paragraph and re-read, and in many cases he would remember the entire content of the paragraph by reading just a part of the first sentence.

Late

He was running late again, and the anxiety he felt was based not on the implications of his meeting, but rather was caused by his own insecurity.

Smart Ass

The two roommates shared an aversion to smart asses, but for different reasons. Raj saw smart ass behavior as a cover for ineptitude and indifference. "Smart asses act like they do because they know they have nothing, know nothing. They know if they address an issue with any seriousness, they'll be exposed immediately. They conflate snark with sophistication, cynicism with intelligence. I've got no time for them, because they have nothing to offer me." Clem had no respect for smart-ass behavior either, but perhaps because he lacked Raj's self-confidence he was clearly more deferential to smart-asses. Rather than ignore smart-asses as did Raj, Clem would try to match their seeming intelligence -- and, when he failed as he often did, retreated back in silence, not out of respect but temerity.

Speaking

While he had grown fairly comfortable as a public speaker over the years -- no more sweaty armpits, stammering mostly gone -- he still had a habit of talking too much, especially when he wasn't entirely confident of what he was speaking. When nervous, his subconscious would search his memory for any supporting detail, argument, or analogy that might possibly help. This would lead him at times to begin a statement and realize, half-way through, that this statement wasn't actually going to help at all, but would rather hurt his presentation. He had once given a presentation on a new software module for generating payroll, and boasted about how easy it was to use -- so easy, in fact, that "if you had someone working for you who probably shouldn't have been hired in the first place" -- at this point he knew he had made a major blunder, but there was no going back now, he couldn't leave the statement just hanging there, he had to find the most graceful way to complete this statement and move on -- "you can finally get some productivity out of them," at which point he realized the best possible scenario was that his audience would forget his entire presentation.

Coat Room

John's mother pointed, without looking, in the direction of a room down the hall, where most of the children had already gathered. He took off his jacket, melted-snow heavy, and threw it in a corner already piled chest-high with jackets. The room was warm and damp, and the heavily smell of running noses, wet hair and unwashed skin.

Daughter

As the sounds of her aching sobs cascaded down from the stairs, he suddenly realized why he had been so short with her, and why he was always so less patient with her than he was with her siblings. She was the oldest, the first child, the one whose arrival made him a father, a person far different than he had been in his younger years, which he now looked upon jealously. He regretted losing the freedom he imagined himself enjoying in those years (although truth be told he was at times far more lonely and anxious then than he ever was now), and he was disappointed with himself for squandering his youthful opportunities. It was upon Rachel, the first child, the one whose arrival so clearly marked the boundary between his former and current life, that he projected his disappointment.

Christmas

Miriam laughed, shaking her head. "Did I feel left out as a kid because my family didn't celebrate Christmas? Are you kidding -- I was relieved to not be caught up in all the nonsense the other kids were so enamored with! No present they could possibly get could live up to the anticipation they built up. No, if anything, I always felt annoyed around Christmas. Sure, there's some good stuff -- love the music, even volunteered to sing at some Christmas pageants -- yeah, that was me, Miriam the Caroling Jew. Jill, from across the street, her family actually knew how to decorate -- always looked forward to visiting Jill in December, they'd have a great tree. But every other house on the street, oh those godawful inflatable Santas and snowmen -- and those damned light-up mechanical deer -- and yeah, some of the music is great, but a lot of it is terrible, especially the new stuff, overwrought Christmas CDs put out by whoever was this year's Top 40 singers."

The Word Game, Part 2

Stimulated by this discovery, he looked in his mind to the letters again. SPEED. Double E, another set of fives, D makes four, fghij, that's ten, klmno fifteen, that makes P sixteen, qrs gets to nineteen. A four, two fives, 16, 19 -- is there an equation somewhere? 14, no help there, 16 and 4 makes 20 -- divide the fives to get 1, subtract, there's the equation!

Fully engaged now, he turned his attention to LIMIT. Twelve, two nines yes, 13, 20. Divide the nines to get 1, that worked last time. Twenty-five, still five off -- and there's five letters in the word! Multiply by 1, subtract five, solved!

Of course, his solution for LIMIT forced him to revisit his SPEED equation. Need to work in the five for the letters. Now it's three fives, the four, 16, 19. Divide the four into 16, get the four back. Now what? Can get to 20 by multiplying the four and one of the fives -- then divide the remaining two fives, 20 minus 1 is, yes, 19!

"What's that?" his mother asked. He turned quickly to his mother in surprise, and only then realized that yes had been said, or more accurately exclaimed, aloud.

The Word Game, Part 1

His parents took him frequently on long car trips for family holidays and vacations. Reading in the car made him naseuous, so he spent a good deal of time desperately looking out the window for something to distract him from the tedium of the drive. His mother had suggested that he try to observe something new about commonplace objects, so one day he decided to see what he could get out of road signs. SPEED LIMIT 55. Nothing distinctive about the size or shape of the sign, but it did have that double number. And, he realized, that was also the number of letters in both words -- four fives. A winning poker hand!

Types of Wireless Networks

Wireless networking equipment is identified with a cryptic set of alphanumeric characters, with 802.11n being the identifier for the current generation of equipment.  While the numbers that make up these identifiers are essentially meaningless (802 refers to February 1980, the month of the first committee meeting for establishing network engineering standards, while 11 is the number given to the 802 subcommittee for wireless networking), the concluding lower-case character is significant, especially if you have a wireless network that contains equipment from different standards -- 802.11a, 802.11b, 802.11g, and 802.11n. Alphabetic progression is a reliable, but not foolproof, indicator of technical advancement; 11a is actually faster than 11b. Understanding how these standards developed can help us see how wireless networking will evolve in the future.

Eating

He was prone to suffering anxiety attacks over responsibilities both minor and major, and during these attacks he found that he didn't like to eat, or rather that he didn't like the satisfaction that came with eating. He would eat only enough to calm the roiling protest of his stomach, and he found this act of self-denial engendered an internal reaction within his body. He felt more alert, active, perceptive when he ate lightly; his body perceived the reduction in food as a threat to its existence, and it responded by actively engaging nerves that were typically responsible for only reflexive actions such as breathing and digestion.

Effort

He knew that this feeling would pass, as it always did, and he'd look back on this time and laugh at his paranoia. But he desperately wanted to hold on to this feeling, as insane as he knew it was, and even knowing there was no way he could maintain the feeling. It was insanity, but it was his -- and at the moment, he preferred to live in misery having something, even something as nauseating as insanity, than live in the world that others accepted, and which he had nothing.

Finger

His fingers were preternaturally long and thin; during a peer evaluation of a training lecture he had given, a fellow student had commented that when he pointed with his index finger, he looked like a skeletal Angel of Death. That comment left him self-conscious about pointing, and he quickly came up with an alternative. Rather than extending his index finger fully, he would bend the finger at the joint, using just the proximal phalanx bone when pointing. He had immediately found this motion awkward, but when he positioned his thumb tight against the phalanx, he realized he had hit upon the position he had been seeking. That motion of his, pointing to students with his thumb tucked into the middle of his bent index finger, had become his signature gesture, imitated by students both in mocking contempt and fond admiration. He was especially pleased when students would return for a visit and greet him first with his signature half-point.

Road

The road to his home, like most residential roads in this rural region, was little more than a thin sheet of asphalt. Motorists could not drive more than twenty feet without having to avoid some deep crack or crevice -- not a pothole really, but more of an implosion of the gravel and dirt underneath. Neither edge had a curb, the crumbling asphalt eventually giving way to gravel and, a few inches further, a natural gutter filled with decaying leaves. Remnants of the white and yellow traffic paint were still distinguishable, in most places anyway.

Gratitude

"I have . . . always been more concerned more with the things that I want, rather than those things that are already mine. And yes, I even think of your love for me as something I possess -- my having your love. I apologize for my self-centeredness, and hope you can accept not only my love, but my gratitude, which I feel so deeply, for all that you have given me."

Sunday

He would spend a good deal of his Fridays planning his labor and lesisure for the weekend, and it was this planning that allowed him to feel that he was getting the most of his free time. But the price of this self-satisfaction was a sense of anxiety he felt every Sunday evening, an anxiety based on the feeling that for all his accomplishments, he really wasn't getting anywhere, that his alarm would ring at the same time on Monday morning, that he would leave within the same 15 minute window he always left, that his greatest challenge at work would continue to be maintaining or at least faking interest in his assignments until he eventually left within his usual 15 minute window to return home, where, while significantly more interesting than his work life, presented mostly the same routine domestic challenges each evening. It was knowing that his wonderful weekends were merely an interlude to the comforting banality of his life that led to his anxiety on Sunday evenings.

Balloon

Ever since the start of his professional career he had imagined himself as the Man in the Field in the popular Internet joke about the Man in the Balloon. "You're in a balloon," he imagined himself replying when Balloon Man, having been blown off course in a strong wind and now lowering himself into an unfamiliar field, asked where he was now. It was a satire of business communication, with Balloon Man representing clueless management and Field Man representing the informed but valueless information provided by staff. He had seen printed emails with some form of this tale posted on several cubicle walls over the years, and at one point had even been placed in that position of honor within his own corporate-sponsored domain. Yet, as his years of experienced led him to positions of greater influence in the corporate world, he realized that he was becoming more like Balloon Man, more often seeking quick answers from his colleagues rather than finding answers on his own.

The Hall

The tall, narrow windows of the hall contained stained glass in parts, yet not with any consistent pattern -- perhaps there had been more in earlier years, but had been replaced as they broke with less expensive clear glass. Sunlight coming through the combined stained and clear glass produced the colors of an aquarium in the hall.

2012 Presidential Campaign, Pt. 2

Mentioned my prediction (which is actually more of a wish than a prognostication) of a 2012 presidential campaign between Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin last night to a friend.

"You really think Obama's going to lose the nomination?" he said incredulously. I repeated my assertion that if unemployment is over 9% then Obama is very vulnerable, because Americans vote with their pocketbooks.

My friend replied that there have been only two sustained primary challenges to a sitting president in our lifetimes -- Ted Kennedy against Jimmy Carter in '80, and Ronald Reagan against Gerald Ford four years before that. Not only did both of those challenges fail, but the sitting president lost the general election both times.

What would this mean if Clinton campaigned against Obama in two years? Does a strong challenge in the primary expose the weaknesses of the incumbent president, as my friend suggested?

I don't think comparisons to the bicentennial election are justified -- it was an odd election cycle, with the sitting president barely in office more than 2 years and having only been named president, and before that vice president, due to resignation; Ford was also new to presidential campaigning, and, having recently pardoned Nixon, could not promote himself as an outsider ready to shake up the Washington status quo.

However, a case could be made that 2012 is looking a lot like 1980. The economy is perhaps even weaker now than it was 32 years ago, and should our current military missions in Iraq and Afghanistan continue to sink deeper into quagmire, we could be looking at a problem similar to the hostage crisis in Iran. A well-intentioned president burdened with a stagnant economy and a weak international reputation . . . would a strong primary challenge expose Obama's shortcomings and leave him defenseless against a strong Republican candidate?

I think that's entirely possible, but I also think there's a strong possibility that we'll see something happen in 2012 that happened in neither '76 or '80 -- a successful primary challenge to the incumbent president. Clinton has a clear advantage over Reagan or Kennedy, as she has primary campaign experience at the national level (remember, she nearly won the nomination in '08, and actually earned more popular votes than Obama), with Reagan only having run a limited campaign in '68 and Kennedy never running at the national level. Clinton also has the ability to campaign both as an insider (a very involved First Lady, eight-year Senator, and current Secretary of State) and outsider (potentially first female President, and the quintessential anti-Obama/anti-incumbent candidate).

I'm not saying I prefer Clinton to Obama, but unless Obama's fortunes change for the better (and in the coming year a lot can certainly happen) I see a Clinton primary challenge as a strong possibility, with a high probability of success. And should that come to pass, all it would take would be for Sarah Palin to ask for the Republican nomination (there'd be no need for a primary campaign) to result in perhaps the most entertaining presidential campaign in the history of this country.

Descent

He could feel the dark gloom of depression descending upon him, and while the rational side of him, still strong but no longer dominant, implored him to do whatever it took to stop going down the road he was on, he embraced the self-destructive darkness that was so familiar to him.

Cliches

The comfort of timeworn phrases was typically more appealing to him than the risk of saying something original.

Presidential Election 2012

Living in the Chicago media market for 21 years taught me that politics was best appreciated as a spectator sport. In that vein, here is my hope that our next presidential election in the U.S. be contested by two of the most intriguing politicians of our generation.

I predict, encourage, DEMAND that Hilary Clinton face Sarah Palin in 2012.

Given the current national political outlook, it's not such a far-fetched idea. The few credible Republican potential candidates are either tainted with the scent of yesterday's newsprint (Gingrich, Romney) or have yet to garner any significant national momentum (Pawlenty et al) -- none have the star power that Palin possesses. On the Democratic side, President Obama's chances for re-election hinge upon one of the absolute rules of U.S. presidential elections, which is that Americans vote with their wallets. If the unemployment rate is still over 9% by February 2012, Obama will be very vulnerable to a primary challenger as savvy as Clinton.

A lot can happen in the next year and a half, so all I have to offer for now is a bunch of wishful thinking. But imagine how thoroughly entertaining a Clinto-Palin contest would be in 2012! It may not be good for the country, but it would make great television.